


As I Roved Out

by dramady, jeck



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramady/pseuds/dramady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeck/pseuds/jeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor McManus is in Boston, left alone when his father disappeared. Murphy, a stranger, turns up from Ireland in McGinty's in a quest to find his own father, someone he's only heard about from his ma. They hit it off, of course, and become close and fate takes over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As I Roved Out

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: This incorporates the first movie with a twist that Connor and Murphy were separated when they were babies, Murphy going with his ma, Connor left in Boston with his da and then with Doc.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not ours; please don't sue.

_Chapter 1_

It was the same routine it always was. Connor went to church early, worked his shift at the meat packing plant and after that, when he'd showered away the smell of the blood, he would go to work with Doc behind the bar. He owed Doc more than they ever talked about, how the old man had taken him in when his da had gone away. They didn't talk about him often, or about much of anything really, what with Doc's Tourette's, but the old man loved him like Connor was really his son and put a roof over his head when no one else would.

Connor would work til the bar closed, help clean up, then get a few hours sleep and start it all over again.

It wasn't a bad life, not really. He was surrounded by good people, he had enough to eat and a bit more money in his pocket, he had some good friends, especially in Rocco, a local low man on the Italian mafia food chain.

He was wiping the counter of the bar when the door opened. By habit, he looked up, expecting a regular (that was all they got in McGinty's).

The guy that came in wasn't a regular. The rag still in his hand, Connor watched him stand at the door and look around.

Murphy had narrow eyes and he had to squint in the room and it made his eyes look like thin slits. He looked slowly around, trying to marry the faces he was seeing to the early picture of his da that his mother had shown him all the way back in Ireland, which felt like a lifetime away. No one really looked like him, so, he continued deeper inside the room, taking an empty bench for himself, upnodding the server, waiting for the man to ask him what he wanted to drink.

Connor tossed the rag back under the sink and dried his hand as he came over to the unfamiliar face, sizing him up as he did. About his age, but not American; somehow Connor knew that. "What can I get ya?"

Murphy met the man's eyes, his head tilting slightly to the side because those eyes looked rather familiar. "Whiskey," he answered finally. "Your finest Irish one." The accent was thick and yes, he wasn't American.

Not bothering to bite back his smile, Connor nodded, reaching back for the bottle at the very top shelf. "You're in the right part of Boston," he said as he poured. "Almost like Ireland, they say anyway."

"You Irish?" Murphy asked because there was a hint of it in how he spoke. He looked at the whiskey as it was poured, nodding and smiling in approval. "make it a double." He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it and taking a long pull.

Connor made it a double, setting the bottle down. "My father's Irish," he said with a shrug. "Everyone in South Boston is Irish, though, if you ask 'em." He grinned. "Ain't that right, Doc?"

"Fuck!" they heard. "Ass!" Connor laughed outright. "Don't mind him," he said. "Wasn't directed at you."

"Who's it directed at then? All the Irish? Or just people of Boston?" Murphy asked, looking around slowly again. "Or maybe just everyone in the bar, huh?" He smiled crookedly before downing the shot of whiskey in his hand.

"Nothing like that either," Connor told him, pointing to his own temple. Poor Doc. But he was a good man. "So what brings you to Boston, then?"

More looking around slowly for Murphy then he met the bartender's eyes. "Heard a lot about it so I came to see what all the fuss was about." He blinked slowly, trying to mask the look in his eyes that would be too telling to a stranger like nosy barkeeps.

Okay, then. Connor shrugged and said, "well, welcome to Boston. You need anything, shout." He slapped at the counter and went back to work, serving drinks, mopping up, listening to Rocco tell jokes. Just the usual.

And all the while Murphy sat there silently listening in to the ongoing conversations around them, watching the people move in and out of the doors and sometimes hiding a smile when, this so-called Rocco would say something funny. He'd had another few whiskeys before calling the bartender over again and asking, this time, for a beer. "Best ale you have, ya?"

"Ale, right." Connor gave him a smile and poured it out, letting the foam die down before he slid it across. "How long you in Boston for? I could give you some sights to see, for your tourist experience, that is."

"I'm here indefinitely," Murphy replied, inching a little bit closer. "Do you know a cheap room I can rent around here? A bed and a shower. That's all I need. I could use a few tourist spots but I'm more interested in where the locals go."

When he was closer like that, Connor looked right at him and it was the fucking weirdest thing. It felt like he _knew_ this guy. This total fucking stranger. Shook him to his bones and he leaned back, gripping the edge of the bar. "There's cheap motels all over the place 'round here if you don't mind the traffic of the hookers next door to you." He took a breath and said, "If you can wait til 3 tomorrow, I can show ya around. I get off work 'round then."

"Aye. You'd do that for me?" Norman cocked his head to the side and stared even more at this bartender. He then smiled slightly and nodded his head. "I better take you up on that offer," he said, extending his hand. "Name's Murphy."

"Connor."

They shook on it. Whatever it was that Connor had felt looking at Murphy didn't go away when they touched, either. "The Seagull next door," he said, thumbing in the right direction. "Is cheap and not too dirty. You can stay there."

"Maybe I will, Connor." Murphy smiled, sat down and then he tossed back the rest of his beer. "So, three tomorrow?"

"Three, yeah. I can meet you here," he was told. "I'll show you around." Connor found himself watching Murphy, still, having trouble looking away. "You want another?" He gestured to the mug.

"Aye. One more for the road." Murphy pushed his empty bottle toward Connor. Connor who he was going to see again tomorrow.

 _Chapter 2_

The sun was shining when Murphy walked up to where Connor was leaning against the outside of the bar. Pushing off the wall, Connor gives him a smile. "Did you have a good night? Quiet?" Company perhaps? He even waggled his eyebrows.

"Quiet," was Murphy's answer, tossing the cigarette he had in his hand and crushing it with his boot. "You?" He asked, finishing for another from his pack and offering one to Connor.

He got a shrug. Connor's life was what it was. It was peaceful, except for the bar.

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and nodded toward the street. They started to walk. "Are you hungry? I'm fucking starving."

"Point us toward food, then." Murphy patted Connor on the shoulder, smiling, his hands shoved in his pockets, too. They walked side by side and in step with each other. "Have you lived here long?"

"All my life," Connor told him, looking around the streets. "This is home. You're from the motherland are you? Where?" He'd always wanted to go, but who the fuck had that kind of money?

Murphy scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground, kicking something that probably was non-existent, eyes on the ground. He shrugged.

He kept things close to the vest. Connor could respect that. A quick stop at a hot dog stand and he started his job as a tour guide.

Views from the bridge, Fenway, the harbor, ending at Quincy Market, where he bought a wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread. He tucked it under his arm. "I could show you the church," he offered, smirking. "Not sure it's for everyone. Don't want to assume."

That made Murphy smile. "I was there this morning. My Ma would kill me if she knew I didn't go." He turned to Connor and nodded. "And she'd know, too." Murphy then pointed in that direction. "Let's go."

Not bothering to bite back his smile, Connor matched his stride to Murphy's. "Surprised I didn't see you there, then."

He held the door open to let Murphy go first. The cool quiet of the church welcomed them both. From under his shirt, Connor pulled out his crucifix and walked silently to a pew and sat, starting to pray.

With his attention on nothing but the altar, Murphy did the exact same thing. They moved almost in sync, kneeling with Murphy's own cross dangling from around his neck. He bowed his head and prayed.

It was a moment later when Murphy stood up, the church empty save for those saying prayers or hearing confession, and then he walked straight down the aisle, past the altar and knelt to kiss the feet of the crucifix at the front of the church. It was how he was raised by his Ma - the practice ingrained in him - second nature, like breathing.

Half a stride behind, Connor did the other side. When he stood, he looked over at Murphy, that feeling of familiarity returning full force, making him feel more than a little winded. But he waited until they were outside to speak. He held up the cheese and bread. "Whiskey?"

"Aye. Man after my own heart, you are." Murphy clapped Connor at the back but then he noticed the cross hanging from his neck. He himself had just put his away under his shirt, but he couldn't help staring at the one too similar to it with narrowed eyes. "Where did you get that?"

"What?" Connor asked, following Murphy's eyes. "This?" He held up the crucifix before slipping it back under his shirt. "Family heirloom," was all he said. It was all he had from his father. "Come on." He smiled. "I got a place for you to stay, too."

Murphy had decided to push the issue of the crucifix away. There were more important things to tackle now, like Whiskey and a place to stay.

The room was dark and dusty, but it was free. "Used to be a speakeasy back in the 40s," Connor told Murphy as he walked in, a bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm with the food. "Now it's just got a lot of shit in it. But Doc said it was okay if you wanted to stay here." One corner of the room wasn't dirty; it had a mattress and a few other things. It was where Connor stayed.

Murphy's eyes had to adjust to the dim light but once he noticed the little things piled haphazardly in a kind of organized chaotic way, he smiled and nodded his approval. But then he turned back to Connor. "You'll let me stay here?" Was he daft? "Why?" They barely knew each other. "I could be a serial killer, ya know?"

"If you're gonna try to knife me in my sleep or shoot me, at least I went to church today." Connor, laughing, shook his head; he wasn't worried. "Are you planning on killing me, Murphy?" he asked, cracking the seal on the bottle.

"I have a knife like Rambo but there goes that element of surprise." Murphy was obviously teasing Connor. "Maybe I should get a gun instead. Shoot you in the head just like that so I can grab your whiskey." He made a motion to shoot and pointed it at his own head before Murphy waved for Connor to pass the bottle.

"Well, now we got that out of the way." Connor took a big swig before doing just that. Then he tore a hunk of the bread off and started to eat. "See what you wanted to see of Boston?" he asked, still chewing.

Murphy took a generous gulp, nodding while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He passed the bottle back to Connor. "Aye. It's a beautiful city. Very American but I like the touch of the home." Ireland, he meant.

There was a pool table in the middle of the room, the light above it the only source to brighten the room. He leaned over and started rolling the balls slowly from one end to the other. "I could get used to this ya know?"

"Livin' in a shit hole in Boston, you mean?" Connor asked, following him over, bottle in hand, clearly teasing. "Lot of Irish here. Good people. Not like this where you come from, then?" Or maybe it was a lot like it.

"It's a lot like it." Murphy nodded. "I worked for my Uncle Sibial; he owned a bar." Grabbing the bottle back, Murphy took a long pull, hissing before pointing it at Connor. "Just like you down there. It's just a lot … rowdier over there." Which was obviously an understatement if anyone could read Murphy's expression.

"You haven't been here on a weekend," Connor retorted, defending McGinty's honor. "Or fucking St. Paddy's day." He gestured across the table. "Then you'll see rowdy." He snatched the bottle away and took a drink.

 _Huh_. Murphy drew back and looked at his suddenly empty hand. He pointed it at Connor and said, "well, fuck you. Nothing beats the pubs in Ireland on St. Paddy's day." He makes an effort to reach for the whiskey again.

"Did you just tell me to fuck me?" At that, Connor, still holding the bottle, threw his arms wide, inviting more. "You come into my house and tell me to fuck me? If Ireland's so great, Murph, what the fuck're you doin' here?!"

Murphy didn't like the fact that the reason he was here, although Connor didn't know it, was being thrown to his face. He stepped closer to Connor and glared. "Shut the fuck up! You don't know shit!"

"I don't know shit?! How do you even fucking know what I know, huh?"

They were both leaning over the pool table, pointing fingers and shouting. Even later, Connor wasn't sure who made the first move, but suddenly, they were pushing and pulling at each other sending balls rolling away, grunting with the effort of getting the upper hand.

Which was clear, after a while, that neither of them could keep it. They both rolled around on the ground, throwing punches, taking turns pinning the other to the dusty floor.

Finally, Murphy had had it and he was the one on top of Connor, sitting across his hips with both hands fisted on Connor's shirt. "I'm here to find my Da!" He yelled. "The fucker left me and my Ma." Then he threw Connor back, let his shirt go and Murphy fell back, sitting, panting, hurting between the open V of Connor's legs.

"Well, why the hell didn't you say so," panted Connor. He was pretty sure he had a black eye. "Christ. You didn't have to hit me in the fucking eye." He didn't sit up again, lying back. "My Da left too. It's not like you're the only one who ever lost a Da, you know. Least you had a mother."

Murphy thought about that - his mother. The one who would play practical jokes, who would smack him upside the head if he strayed or said something stupid, the one who cooked with whiskey - in everything. He couldn't help smiling. "You try her bein' your Ma." He shook his head. "Crazy woman."

"Did she teach you to fuckin' hit someone in the fuckin' eye? Fuck!" Connor pressed the heel of his hand to the swelling skin. "Least you could do is give me the fuckin' whiskey."

To get to the whiskey bottle. Murphy had to crawl back over Connor's body, stretching and grabbing the whiskey by the neck, taking a swig before he handed it to Connor. "Yeah. She taught me to punch." He grinned.

"Taught you to fight dirty's more like it." Connor snagged the bottle and drank deeply from it, then set the bottle on the floor. Murphy was still sitting on him. The weirdest part of that was that he didn't mind. He pointed a finger in Murphy's chest. "Don't fucking hit me again."

"Why? Are you a fuckin' pansy?" Then Murphy mocked Connor. "Don't hit me! You fight dirty!" Then he put his hands on Connor's chest, pushing off him and standing up, offering his hand. "Come on you baby."

"Fuck you," Connor retorted. When he was on his feet, he gave Murphy a shove. For calling him a fucking pansy. The shove let him get the other guy over the pool table, hand at the back of his neck, keeping him in place.

Of course, that had to put Connor's hips right against Murphy's ass. "Now who's the fucking pansy?" (He didn't think about how Murphy could feel Connor's reaction to this turn of events.)

Murphy tried to turn his head, his eyes strained to look at Connor. Oh, he felt that and his hips pushed back. He was trying to free himself was what Murphy told himself. "Get off me, you ass! I'm not the pansy!" The twitch his cock made pinned over the pool table said otherwise.

With a grunt, Connor pushed off him, letting go. He swiped the bottle of whiskey and went to sit on his mattress. He felt flushed, hot. "Coulda fooled me," he muttered under his breath.

"Shut up." Murphy pushed off the table, turning to face Connor, leaning against the edge with his arms crossed over his chest. "So your Da left, too, huh?" His brows furrowed. "That's why I'm never going to have a fucking family, man." He held his hand out for the drink.

"I can toast to that." Connor handed over the bottle before wiping at the back of his mouth. "Your ma sounds like a piece of work."

"Aye, she is." Murphy picked the bottle from Connor's hand then took a few steps closer before plopping next to him on the bed. Then Connor was told stories about Murphy's mother who, according to him, was barking mad.

"Itching powder from a joke catalog in my shorts." Another swig, then Murphy used the bottle to point to his crotch. "Rinne si cinnte wont me gneas an oiche sin. She was quite proud of herself even when my balls were the size of apples."

Laughing, and damned hard too, Connor had a hand on his stomach. "What the fuck." If that was what mothers were like, no thank you. He did, however, give Murphy a sideling glance. "You recover from it?"

"I'd like to think so, aye." Murphy responded, even so far as cupping his crotch and obviously giving it a squeeze. "Do I need to prove it?" He took the bottle. More whiskey. It was close to gone now.

Connor's gaze was heated, following Murphy's movements. He shrugged. Whatever it was between them felt like a fever or something. DIdn't make any sense. But when Murphy looked up, he didn't look away.

They could hear the sound of the bar below them, at its peak busy time. Gradually, Connor looked away. "I have to get up early tomorrow. Work." He gestured for Murphy to keep the bottle as he got to his feet to head to the bathroom.

Murphy followed Connor with his eyes and then he stood up, still holding on to the bottle getting things together of whatever he could find that would make a fine bed for the night. His bag could double as a pillow, he figured. Some old curtains laid out at least assured him he wouldn't be lying on the cold floor.

That was how Connor would find Murphy - lying on the floor, head pillowed on his bag, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed and softly snoring. The bottle of whiskey was right there, too, propped beside him.

 _Chapter 3_

Connor had always been relatively social. Friendly, easy to talk to. So he shouldn't have been so surprised, he supposed, that Murphy seemed to fit into his life so easily. They had similar interests (Connor had even offered to get Murphy a job at the meat packing plant and Murphy already was helping out at the bar) and they liked the same kinds of things.

They got in those scuffles, too, more often than not that ended as quickly as they started, always leaving Connor flushed and short of breath for reasons he didn't like to think much about.

They got Murphy a mattress, too, laid it down a foot or so from Connor's, and a pillow. They'd wake up the same time in the morning to go to church.

It was good.

That night, the bar was closing. The regulars were still there and Doc had yet to give last call. But Connor was pouring him and Murphy shots as much as he was for the paying customers. He didn't say a thing about the flush on Murphy's cheeks, how it made the pit of Connor's stomach feel heavy.

Murphy had gotten to know these regulars and he was sitting among them, amidst the laughter and even though he was smiling back, he wasn't entirely as boisterous as they were. He had gotten more subdued as the night wore on and now he was watching as Connor poured out the shots. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, blowing smoke rings in the air in front of Connor's working hands. Murphy was staring at Connor's hands.

"Aye," Connor said as he nudged at Murphy's shoulder with one of those hands. "You all right there, Murph?" He grinned, cocked head and warm eyes.

That seemed to have stirred Murphy that he stood from the stool and slammed his hand on the bar. "Come on, Connor. Are we drinking that or what?" He pointed to the newly poured shots and someone behind Murphy was doing a countdown.

3 … 2 … 1 …

Murphy downed the whiskey and he slammed the shot glass on the counter with a clunk before chasing it with ale. He grinned and pointed at Connor. "I should have made a bet. I would have fucking won."

"Ah, fuck you." Connor had only been a breath behind anyway. He ran the back of his hand along his mouth before pouring more shots. He rested his weight on the bar and waited for the countdown again. Then he tossed his drink back, glass slammed to the bar. He held his arms wide, now who was the winner?! He was! "Take that, you bastard!," he declared grinning from ear to ear.

"That's only one a piece." Murphy was waving his hand for the bottle then pointed at the shot glasses again. "Best two out of three. I'm not going to let you fucking beat me!"

Connor grinned, leaning in close over the bar. "What do I get if I win?"

Well, Connor would know that Murphy didn't really have anything to bargain with. If he did, nothing was worth shit. But Murphy leaned over the bar, his face as close as he could get to Connor and then he said, low enough that only Connor would hear, "anything you want." Murphy smirked.

Those words caused a wave of heat to wash right over Connor's body and he could feel the prickle in his cheeks. Then he leaned back and slapped his hand down on the bar. "Count us down!," he shouted.

And someone - it was probably Rocco - who did.

Connor tossed the shot back, slamming the glass down before chasing it with the ale. When he swallowed, again wiping at his mouth with the back of hand. "Well?!"

Murphy had slammed his glass down on the counter and he looked around, too. People were quiet until someone beside him, whose face was pressed to the bar straightened up and pointed … to Connor.

"Fuck! I won! I won!" Murphy argued but everyone else was saying no. Guys were cheering for Connor until Rocco reached from behind Murphy to lift Connor's arm up, indicating he was victor. "No! We'll ask Doc! Doc! Who won? Huh? Tell us who won?"

"F-F-F - "

"Who's the victor! I won," said Connor, hand still in Rocco's grasp. "Just admit it, Murph." His voice was quiet under the din of the bar and still he didn't look away, his smile growing.

"Fuck! Ass!" Around them, the bar exploded with laughter, and still Connor stared at Murphy who just stared back.

"Best three out of five." Murphy challenged, pushing his chin up and narrowing his eyes at Connor. "And if I win, what do I get?" Because they didn't talk about that.

"I. Fucking. Won." They were nearly nose to nose. "What are ye, Murph? A sore loser?" It was a taunt as the rest of the patrons started to notice, getting quiet.

"Well fuck you! I'm not! I play fair and square and I'm just upping the stakes a little." Murphy said, not backing away, not backing down also not moving but ready in case they get into another one of their scuffles.

Not looking away, Connor asked the group. "What do lads think? Three out of five? Or do I win fair and fucking square?"

There was a lot of noise, nothing clear, until Doc spoke. "Aye, aye, pipe down, the lot of you! C-Connor won. That's it. Go back to your business. Last call!"

At that, Connor grinned, his head falling to the side. "Poor Murphy."

"Shut up!" Murphy pointed to his empty shot glass and empty pint of ale. "Fill it up, man. I'm going to fucking need it." He popped himself back on the bar stool, sulking just a little.

He was still sulking when they went upstairs to their room. Connor let Murphy walk ahead of him. They were both stumbling just a little and it didn't help that he was shoving at Murphy's shoulders, still taunting him. "Whatever I want, he said," Connor chortled. "Whatever. I. Want."

"Fuck you! You better not ask to piss on me or to clean up after you. Or do your laundry that always smells like raw meat." It was disgusting. Murphy, just for the hell of it, pushed Connor once they get to their door.

Staggering a few feet, Connor was laughing. "You told me it was whatever I want," he said, turning around, arms spread wide. "I'm not gonna piss on ya, Murph. Though I like your idea of the laundry. Need a good washerwoman."

"I'm not a woman!" And then Murphy lunged toward Connor, the door swinging open and banging on the other side. They both fell forward, the momentum leaving them landing half on the mattress on the floor. "I'm not going to wash your stinking clothes you bastard!"

"Oh, yeah," Connor panted, pushing and pulling at Murphy until he got on top, straddling his hips, finally - with enough effort to make him sweat - getting the other man's hands over his head. It was enough to have his heart beating hard. And that wasn't the only thing that was hard. He went still, watching Murphy's face. "Fuck."

The scuffle, the wrestling around on the ground, even the grabbing made Murphy hard, too, his evident since Connor was sitting right over it. Murphy's chest was rising and falling but his eyes were fixed on Connor, too. He didn't even try to unseat him, not even when Connor leaned down, crushing their mouths together.

It wasn't a gentle kiss, not even asking permission to explore. Connor all but shoved his tongue in Murphy's mouth, grip on his wrists tightening right before he let go of one to use his hand to pull at Murphy's clothes to get them off.

It obviously startled Murphy who gasped when Connor's mouth was on him but he didn't protest. In fact, he stopped fighting back altogether. At some point Murphy kissed back, tugging at his wrists pinned over his head and as soon as one was free, he hooked it behind Connor's neck to keep him there - pressed against Connor's lips.

There was the sound of ripping fabric, the rough rustling of clothes being slid off of their skins, all haphazardly strewn around them. Murphy's pants were around his thighs, stuck. Everywhere above his legs? Naked.

Connor got his own pants down, right to his knees, then, and then he pulled at Murphy, shoving him to roll to his knees and his elbows. He tried not to think, not to stop and think. He had a hand around his dick and with some angling, he shoved forward, biting his lip to keep from making a sound.

Murphy had to bury his face on the mattress, his hands fisting on the sheets and Connor could feel the way Murphy's body trembled, how it tensed at the invasion. The cry he made against the sheets was pained, and he gasped and panted like that for a while, feeling vulnerable until he couldn't help himself - Murphy began to push back.

Curled over his back, breathing heavy in Murphy's ear, all Connor could think were words - tight, hot, _good_. And when Murphy started to move, Connor leaned back, hands bracketing slender hips and he _pulled_ Murphy down on his cock, harder and harder each time.

A strangled, pleasured moan surprisingly came from Murphy's lips but he didn't stop moving. He pushed against the mattress to catch himself from falling face first. It made Murphy call out Connor's name, the man pushing out the pleasure that Murphy could feel rising while the pain slowly pulled back, even the ache from the tight grip on Murphy's hips that were surely going to bruise, he chose to ignore.

Connor's orgasm caught him entirely off-guard. He shouted out a sound as he jerked forward, forehead landing between Murphy's shoulderblades as he rocked through the aftershocks.

Murphy was still hard between his shaky legs and he was grinding his hips back, groaning with his face still pressed to the bed. Connor's come had started to dribble down the backs of his thighs and he could feel the heat of Connor's body over him, sweat mingling, thick and wet between them. "Fuck," Murphy whimpered, turning his face slowly trying to look at Connor. "Fuck."

"Yeah." Connor looked back at him, sated and more than a little spooked. He pulled out, urging Murphy to fall to his side. That's when he saw he was still hard. Falling forward and his side, he reached down, fisting Murphy hard and fast before he could think much more about it.

Murphy whimpered first, his face pressed to the bed and trying to quiet himself, the noises he made were too sensual, too intimate for something like this. But Connor's movements were insistent, demanding, and it pulled Murphy's orgasm from him with each stroke. He moaned, hips moving against Connor's hand as he came, trembling, spilling all over the sheets.

Connor let go, wiping his hand on the sheets. He laid then, just on his side. Looking. "I'm not gay," he said in a harsh whisper.

Murphy winced when he moved, obviously pained. This was probably the reason why he had no bark left. He turned to face Connor, staring with thin, slitted eyes. "Never said you were," he replied, moving slowly, pulling his pants back up but leaving them unzipped. "Neither am I," he added belatedly.

"I know."

And in that way, it was settled.

 _Chapter 4_

Life continued as it had. The two mattresses were still next to each other upstairs and sometimes they were both used, sometimes not. Murphy still didn't speak any more of his Da. Really, they spoke of very little. Time passed.

Connor woke up with his arm around Murphy's waist, nose in the back of his neck. He didn't move, blinking awake slowly.

The more the got to know each other, the more they spent time together, the more Murphy felt something niggling in the back of his skull. He started asking questions, like where was Connor's family from. Then he'd leave it alone for a good few days, a week. Then the next question would be raised. "What's your Da like?" Was today's question.

"Don't know," Connor answered, voice sleep-grated, palm flat against Murphy's stomach. "Disappeared when I was a wee lad. Didn't have a ma like you did, though. Why?"

Murphy shrugged. "I was just wondering, you know? That cross …" It was almost identical to his. Heirlooms. They both noticed but had finally resigned it to the fact that they were probably common during those days many years ago. It was obvious that Murphy had been up for a while, thinking.

"Not that again." With a sigh, Connor rolls to sitting and reaches for the cigarettes, tamping out two to light. "Today's St. Paddy's Day. Gotta go to church and work. Bar's gonna be busy tonight."

"Aye. We'll finally see how rowdy it gets, hmm?" Murphy dropped the subject and sat up, a hand held out for a cigarette from Connor. "Expecting a big crowd?" It was always best to change the subject.

"Always," Connor said with a grin as he stood.

~~

When they got back to the room, it was late. Or early, depending on how you looked at it. Connor reached for Murphy's hand to look at his bleeding knuckles. They hadn't planned on getting in a fight, but the Russians had fucking asked for it. Lighting the one's ass on fire had been particularly rewarding.

Connor took the bottle of vodka and opened it with his mouth to pour over the cuts. He held tight to Murphy's wrist - the booze would burn.

"Here," Murphy took the bottle with his free hand, the other was still holding on to Connor. Slowly, he poured the liquor over Connor's hand. "You have to learn to punch, man."

"Ah, fuck you," Connor said with gritted teeth. He snatched the bottle back, took a swig and caught Murphy's wrists. "I know how to punch. Got the guy, didn't I?" It was his turn to pour over Murphy's knuckles. "Least I didn't waste wine." But his retort lacked heat; his concern for Doc was preoccupying him, clearly.

"It was cheap wine!" Murphy defended. "You used the good whiskey to light up Ivan's ass!" He pushed Connor's shoulder but then remembered he was hurt so Murphy took the bottle back and poured a bit more on the wound. "Sit still!"

"Quit bossing me around!" But Connor took it. Then he stripped down to his boxers and passed out only wake up when the door was shoved in.

 _Chapter 5_

"I'm not going to kill you," Ivan said. "I'm going to kill your _brother_." The thug dragged Murphy by his robe - it didn't even occur to Connor to argue the assumption, Murphy was going to be dead anyway - and Connor saw red, screaming Murphy's name at the top of his lungs.

Murphy just looked back over his shoulder, resigned to his fate, eyes on Connor until he was pushed out the door. What happened after was like a blur. Murphy could hardly remember because all he knew was that he was by the trash bins outside, kneeling, staring at the barrel of a gun waiting for it to fire a bullet through his skull.

It wasn't one of Connor's better plans. It could've gone really wrong. But all he knew was that he had to save Murphy. That was all he knew. "How" was what he had to work with, a toilet and a long fall. Hurt like fuck too right before he passed out, too.

The hospital was a few blocks away and Murphy carried Connor all the way there. He laid him down on the gurney, groaning, "you fuckin' weigh a ton!" Not gentle when he plopped him down.

"Fuckin' saved your life, I did," Connor grumbled. It felt like his spine was broken. "And that's how you thank me." At least there, he could get the handcuffs cut off and his wrists bandaged. He watched Murphy the whole time. When they were alone again, he finally asked, "you all right?"

Murphy leaned closer and spoke right by Connor's ear. "I'm alright," he said, breathy, "and thank you." He smirked and then gently took Connor's hand, turning them one way then the other, looking at the bandage, the smirk gone with only knitted brows and a worried expression. "Are you?"

"I'm fine." Connor hadn't broken his back or his legs. He'd just be sore as hell for a few days. "Thought you were a goner," he whispered just as softly. The idea still made his pulse race and sweat break out at his hairline. "Had to do something. Knew you couldn't do it on your own."

"Yeah. I need my _brother_ to watch out for me." Murphy replied, grinning again. "Now I gotta watch out for you," he said, waving a hand to offer to help Connor back on his feet. "We have to go."

"Aye." Connor slid to his feet, arm around Murphy's neck. He hissed in a breath at the pain.

Of course, turning themselves in didn't go as planned either. That the detective knew so much about what had happened without them saying a word was suspicious at best. But at least having the cots in the cell meant they got a decent night's sleep.

 _Chapter 6_

There was no explanation for what happened next. Connor didn't know the voice - the one that came after the priest's voice, that is. But it woke him from a sound sleep; he jerked up from where he lay.

Murphy had just sat up, too. Looking over and they both utter the words of their dream. They stare at each other for a moment until it was Murphy who stood up and sat on the edge of Connor's cot. Did they just have the same dream?

What the fuck was that? Connor sat there, still breathing hard.

It wasn't until the morning when they knew what to do. Call the number on the pager, take care of the problem. Of course, they hadn't accounted for the rope, or for Rocco, but having a bag full of money and dead Russians - that was a success, right?

Murphy would say it was. They had booze and guns and he was drunk enough to lie down on the table not caring if the empty bottles fell and rolled away. "We were good, huh?" Murphy was aiming at something on the far wall.

"Aye, set it down. Set the fucking gun down before you shoot your nuts off." Which was damned funny. After the unfortunateness with the cat, after Rocco passed out, when they were drunk, but not _that_ drunk, Connor finally reached for Murphy, grabbing at his clothes, reaching under them, alert enough to listen if Rocco woke up.

There went the gun, falling out of Murphy's hands because they were suddenly reaching for Connor. He clasped then to the back of his neck and pulled him down, feeling his warm (beer) breath, licking around his lips already anticipating a kiss. Fuck Rocco. Murphy didn't care as long as Connor kept moving his hands under his shirt and, if he was lucky, _lower_.

Lower, yeah. With hissed admonitions to stay _quiet_. To shut the fuck up and not wake up Rocco. They both smelled and tasted of stale cigarettes and too much beer. "Ya gotta fuckin' be quiet, Murph," Connor mumbled against his mouth after licking inside. " _Brother_." He snickered and worked Murphy's jeans open.

"Fuck!" Murphy murmured then bit his lip to keep quiet. He was still lying on the table, thighs parted, legs dangling with his feet resting on his chair's seat. The bottles atop the table rattled, rolling back and forth when he moved to rock his hips, hard cock needing more of Connor's touch.

Leaning forward, over Murphy, both their jeans open, Connor fisted their cocks together, hard and fast, panting, kissing, but quiet.

A few bottles fell on the floor with a clatter, and Connor went still. Rocco's snoring stopped, he grunted. Connor covered Murphy's mouth with his hand until they heard Rocco start snoring again.

One of Murphy's hands gripped the edge of the table, the other was wrapped around Connor, locked in a tight embrace while they both panted against each other's skin. It was the only way to keep quiet. The table started to squeak as it slid back and forth on the vinyl floor, moving as Connor's hand moved over their dicks. Murphy muffled his moan against Connor's sweaty shoulder.

They came at the same time, come slicking Connor's grip, his fist tightening before he let go, hot, messy kisses pressed to Murphy's mouth as he worked to catch his breath. "We gotta talk to Rocco." About how he'd been set up, how the Italians clearly thought Rocco was an idiot. A Funny Guy and nothing more.

"Yeah," Murphy agreed even though only half his brain seemed to be functioning after that intense, hurried orgasm. He was still lying over the table, Connor sprawled on top of him and then his lips twitched in a crooked smile. "Get off me." He pushed, both of them with a pretty substantial stain on their jeans and shirts and bellies. "We'll talk to him tomorrow."

Grumbling, Connor did just that, giving Murphy a shove for his efforts.

 _Chapter 7_

The church was quiet. It was needed after things started getting a little mad. They were on the lam, all three of them. But the church in the wee hours of the morning was quiet. Good. Connor knelt next to Murphy and prayed.

It must be odd for anyone who saw them move almost in sync while at the same time not acknowledging the other even in the very early morning hours where the sky was still dark and the church, empty. Murphy rose and stepped out into the aisle, walking forward toward the crucifix past the altar.

That was the last peace they'd have, but Connor didn't know it at the time. All he knew was that with Rocco around, they weren't alone. The three of them were always together. It wasn't something he should be thinking about as he lit a cigarette in the dawn, but he did.

It was back to work, then, the house, the room out back, Rocco nearly getting himself killed. And the man and the guns. The wounds, all the blood, all the shouting, all the fucking mess. No hospitals this time. It was back to Rocco's place. Connor set the iron on the stove.

They finally all stopped yelling and took the time to assess each other's injuries. Rocco was the worse and only because he lost a finger in the assault. Still, they had decided that Murphy should go first.

At the same table where he and Connor -- Murphy thinks of that time, that _moment_ as he bent over the table. His one hand clutched the edge like he did when he was with Connor, the other stretched out pressed against Connor's thigh while Rocco gagged him to make sure he wouldn't make too much noise.

A look exchanged and then Murphy nodded. He was ready.

It was shit to say that Connor felt it as much as Murphy did. But damned if he was going to let Rocco do it. No, he'd do it. He'd take care of Murphy, cauterize his wound. They took a deep breath together and he pushed the hot iron against Murphy's arm.

The gag was useful but it didn't stop Murphy from writhing in pain, trying to stop himself from jerking around too much so that Connor could do his job. It hurt so much that tears spring from his eyes and his hand by Connor's thighs pushed even harder against it.

Rocco was next then it was Connor's turn. "Behind me," he said, pointing to Murphy. His wound was on the leg and he couldn't lie down for it. He bit into the gag and took a deep breath, pushing his back against Murphy's chest. He nodded. He was ready.

Christ, there was nothing that hurt so bad as that.

It was like Murphy could feel the pain that Connor felt because even as he pulled the gag, he was chest to Connor's back and could feel each tension and pain filled jerk of his body. He pressed forward, letting Connor push his back against him. Murphy wasn't sure, but he hoped that it at least helped.

Drinking after that, and a lot of it. Rocco staggered to bed still going on about his missing finger. How he could feel it still. Connor lay on his back - any other position hurt too much. He blew smoke rings into the air. They were in trouble. A shit load of it too. They could all be dead. It was damned lucky they weren't. He looked over at Murphy. "You all right?"

Murphy shrugged and the movement made him wince in pain. So, he down the whiskey to the last drop before lying down next to Connor. He groaned when his back hit the cushion. "We're fuckin' dead," he said.

"Aye." Passing over his cigarette, Connor kept his gaze on the ceiling. "Might as well go down shooting, eh?" Then there was nothing but heaven to look forward to. Connor figured that had to be pretty nice. "This wasn't what you came to Boston for," he added after a moment, head turned to take in Murphy's profile. "You never found your da."

Again Murphy shrugged. Would it matter now? Especially when he found something that was worth more to him than the money they got from the Russian. He found himself a brother. His head actually supplied, _lover_ , but brother was a safer way to put it. They weren't gay.

"If he wanted to find me, he'd find me. If I really wanted to find him, I would have already." But he didn't and maybe that was for the best.

With a groan and a stretch of muscle he'd pay for later, Connor levered himself to his side, hand coming up to cup Murphy's face, turning it as he leaned down, so that their mouths would meet. If they were going to die, he didn't want to not do this.

The kiss felt familiar but stirred something in Murphy. Something else entirely. He kissed back with abandon, not even thinking that Rocco was somewhere nearby. Everything narrowed to nothing but this kiss that Connor was giving him, that he's opening up to.

Each movement hurt both of them, but they got clothes off. Being on top wasn't going to happen. Connor rolled to his back again with a hiss. "C'mere," he whispered, tugging Murphy closer again.

Murphy couldn't lay on his side with that shoulder wound and forget pressing against the other side of Connor where his injury was. He looked at Connor and couldn't help busting a laugh, covering his mouth so he wasn't too noisy. "What a pair we make, huh?" Murphy pointed out, failing in another attempt to prop himself up. As it was, he was half lying over Connor, thighs straddling Connor's uninjured leg and he couldn't help rutting against him his hard dick against warm skin.

"Christ." This was frustrating. Trust Murphy to laugh. This was serious! This was the last go before they probably fucking died! "Shut up already," Connor hissed. With a groan, he spread his legs and all but pulled Murphy between them. He braced Murphy's ribs with his elbows on the floor. "Just do it."

Well it still wasn't going to be that easy. Murphy had to sit up and carefully so that he could avoid Connor's injured leg then he spit in his good hand because that didn't hurt to move. He slicked it over Connor's hard cock, watching his face while his hand moved slowly over it. "Quit wiggling will you?"

Well, that got him to quit moving. Connor's breath caught in his chest. He still had his hands bracing Murphy's ribs. Then he helped Murphy lift up and did his best to brace him so he could work himself down. "Ah, fuck," he hissed.

With some work Murphy was able to lift up on his knees and his hand on his good arm curled around Connor's dick so that he could guide himself over him. Slowly, groaning as quietly as he could, Murphy sank down over Connor's long, hard cock. "Fuck, Connor. _Fuck!_ "

"Christ." Connor's head was back, eyes slitted. Because of his bum leg, he couldn't push up, just held Murphy's ribs to help him move. Rocco was the last thing on his mind. All he concentrated on was Murphy.

"Lord's name," Murphy reminded. It was something his Ma would always say. But then it was all forgotten when Murphy propped one hand on Connor's chest, pushing to lift up and then he'd hiss a soft breath when he sank back down. His eyes fell closed and he kept to a slow rhythm, everything, everywhere aching.

Of all the times to want to go _slow_ , to savor what Connor never even knew he wanted. He could only use one leg and with that, he tried to push up, his heel sliding on the floor. His fingers are digging into Murphy's sides.

"Fuck!" It wasn't enough and Murphy was trying, moving just a little bit faster, falling back down on Connor's cock that thrust him deeper inside. He bit his lip to contain a moan, breathless already but he kept moving.

It only occurred to Connor belatedly; he let go with one hand and got it around Murphy's dick, jerking him off hard and fast too, sweat beading his brow. Pain warred with pleasure and he felt like he was never going to come until his orgasm barreled into him and knocked him senseless.

"Ah … _Fuck_!" Murphy rumbled, feeling Connor come deep inside him and it made his toes curl and his body tremble. He lifted up just a bit, then closed his hand over Connor's to continue to jerk himself off. When he came, he fell forward, rocking with his dick pinned between them, his lips against Connor's skin to keep himself from moaning aloud.

Wow, that hurt. Hissing out a string of curses, Connor got Murphy off him and onto his back before flopping back himself, panting, sweating and covered in body fluids. But without looking, he reached for Murphy's hand.

"Why are you complaining?" Murphy took Connor's hand, though, holding it. "I'm the one that did all the fuckin' work." Plus Connor came inside him, okay? That was going to be messy.

"I got fuckin' shot in the leg, in case you forgot," retorted Connor. "Fuck." They needed to clean up and put on clothes. With a growl, he sat up. "Gimme a push, eh." He'd get towels. If he could get up.

Murphy gave him a hard push. "We all got shot at," he reminded and was up on his feet then, too, wincing. "Fine. Sit the fuck back down and I'll get us cleaned up." Murph grabbed his clothes and tiptoed toward the bathroom, leaving Connor lying on the floor.

 _Chapter 8_

Of all the things Connor had thought might happen, having Rocco get shot - just Rocco - wasn't one of them. The man who'd been so fucking full of _life_ be dead - Connor couldn't wrap his head around it. They didn't have time to. They had to get free. They had to finish what they came there for. That involved breaking Murphy's wrist. The crunch of the bone made Connor nearly puke.

They had righted Rocco and had knelt there, praying for his everlasting soul when they heard the voice and looked up, guns cocked and ready.

The man with the guns.

The man with the voice. The voice in their dream.

They were going to die right there with Rocco. This was the thought that passed through Murphy. That he and Connor were going to die. Together. Which really wouldn't be too bad. Still, Murphy didn't dare takes his eyes off the man even if the gun in his hand was slightly shaking.

"That our feet may swiftly carry out thy command," the man said. "We will flow a river forth unto thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be. Et nomine patri et spiritu sancti. Amen." He walked up, resting a hand on Murphy's shoulder and cupping Connor's chin.

And everything they knew changed. Murphy's Da had found him. And so had Connor's.

 _Chapter 9_

 _I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to kill your brother_. Fucking Ivan. The fucking Russian knew something that Connor and Murphy didn't. They learned that night about Il Duce, about why Connor's father had gone away when he was a wee baby, why Murphy had never known his father. They didn't know why they'd been separated; that might've been a question for their ma.

Connor and Murphy sat in a motel room, on separate beds. Connor had his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He didn't speak. His stomach felt strange, tight. He couldn't look at Murphy.

Their Da had asked them if they had the constitution to go as far as needed but after this revelation, how could either of them be ready? Losing a friend then meeting their father and brother in a span of a prayer was too sudden. The shock of it still had not quite worn off and the silence in the room stretched on endlessly.

Murphy was on the bed, he had since laid down, facing the wall with his back to Connor. "Twins?" He questioned, and from the sound of his voice it seemed that it was something he hadn't meant to say out loud.

"Aye." Connor put his head in his hands. No matter how they looked at it, they had sinned. There was no way to explain what they did in any other way. When he'd first found out, he'd worried that he would puke. Thank Christ - Lord's name - he hadn't.

He looked over at where Murphy was lying down. "You all right?" It felt like it was all he'd asked lately.

Murphy sat up abruptly and then he was standing, towering over Connor. "How can I fucking be alright? Everything I've been told is shit. And you're - you're --!" Murphy straightened up and took a few steps back, his eyes narrowed at Connor. "You're my brother. My twin …"

It was most definitely fucked up.

"Quit your yellin! It's not like you're telling me anything I don't already know, all right?" Connor stood up too. "I know all that. Now we just gotta - we gotta - "

Not knowing what to say, he sighed, shrugging. "We gotta move on."

"Move on?" Murphy looked at Connor like he was mad. "What's that supposed to mean? I go back to me Ma and you what? Stay here?"

"So, what, you're just gonna leave? After all we been through, you're just gonna - go home to mama?" Of course the words were out of Connor's mouth before he realized that Murphy's ma was _his_ ma. He ran his hand over his hair. "Fuck! All right, Murph. Do whatever the fuck it is you want to do. I'm done."

"Done? You're done? With what? Huh?! Me?" Murphy was so angry his skin was flushed and then he pushed Connor by the shoulders. "You're the one that said move on. Not me." He pushed again. Harder.

"Ah, fuck you, then! That's not what I meant and you fucking know it!" After staggering back and catching himself, Connor shoved back, hard enough to send Murphy back onto his bed. "I meant fucking moving on from your mental freak out and accept what it is and we move on from that. We still got a job to do!" He was shouting, bent over, hands fisted in Murphy's shirt. "Didn't figure you would run out when there something still left to do."

Murphy struggled against Connor, slapping at the hands pinning him down and trying to shove him away. "Get the fuck off me!" Now he was kicking his legs but they got tangled on Connor's hip. "I wasn't going to run! I wasn't going to leave you asshole!" Murphy then grabbed Connor and pulled him to the bed, trying to roll over him so he'd be pinning Connor down. "Fuck you, you don't know shit! You don't know me!"

"That's bullshit," Connor hissed back as they grappled, the cheap hotel bed creaking with their movements. "I fucking know you better than you know yourself." Neither man could get the upper hand; they were too evenly matched and too pissed off.

Who knew who threw the first punch but there they were with fists flying. They fell off the bed, Murphy's foot kicking against the nightstand sending the lamp falling over with a crash. "Fuck you! You want me to go just fucking say it! Just tell me to go!" Murphy rolled them over, his side hitting the other bed and then he had Connor pinned under him.

Panting, face red from the exertion, Connor pushed and shoved at him, but Murphy wasn't budging. "Why the fuck would I do that," he growled. "You're my fucking _brother_." And the person Connor felt closest too in the whole fucking world, Doc aside.

"You're the one who said move on!" Murphy yelled, fists punching Connor's chest. "How the fuck would I know if you meant you didn't want me around!" And that was what hurt that blinded Murphy from seeing what Connor was saying.

" _Quit fucking hitting me, you bastard!_ " Connor finally trapped Murphy's wrist. "You fucking - quit it! Holy fuck, you fucking could've caved in one of my ribs! Now you know what the fuck I meant, so calm _the fuck down_!"

But Murphy couldn't calm down. It was all too much to think about. "I'm your fucking brother! I"m your fucking brother!" He said it over and over again but the fight had gone out of him. Murphy collapsed over Connor, still trying to free his wrists from his grip.

"I know you are," Connor told him quietly. "I know." He let go of Murphy's wrists and wrapped one arm around his shoulders, the other hand cupping his head. "I know you are, Murph."

Staring down at Connor like this reminded Murphy of everything that had gone on between them. He was still panting for breath from the fight but was too caught in Connor's gaze. "Fuck you," was the last thing he said before he closed the distance and kissed Connor so hard that their teeth clicked.

The fight might have gone out of both of them, but the lust didn't. Just a few seconds into the kiss and Connor was pushing and shoving at Murphy's clothes to get them off. _Brother - brother - brother_. The chant in his head wouldn't go away; he pushed it to the back of his head as he rolled over, naked, covering Murphy's body with his own, taking and giving biting, wet kisses.

Murphy gave as good as he got. nipping at Connor's skin while he ran his hands over his body. His shifted on the floor, parting his thighs, letting Connor settle between them, his cock already hard between his legs. Murphy thought it, too - that they shouldn't do this but Connor was right there, warm and solid over him. "Fuck."

When Connor pushed inside him, spit-slick and hard as stone, they both groaned, breath mingling. When Connor started to move, it was with long, even strokes. They weren't injured and they could, for the night anyway, take their time.

Once they got started, it was impossible to stop. Murphy cupped Connor's ass and he pulled him down, needing deeper thrusts. They moved together, amazed at how they seem to not need words. Later, with a shift, Murphy was on his knees, pushing back on Connor's thrusts, moaning into the sheets where he was perched over the edge of the bed.

That allowed Connor to pull Murphy back by his hips, over and over. Sweat was beading at his brow, hips flexing with each movement. "Fuck," he gasped when he was buried balls-deep. He rocked forward even deeper. "Fuck, Murph."

A string of curses from Murphy was muffled against the sheets. He was trembling so much from the force of Connor's thrusts and the feel of him being filled over and over again. He slipped his hand between his legs and fisted his hand around his dick, jerking it in time to each of Connor's deep thrusts. "Fuck, Connor."

Pulling Murphy up so they were chest to back, Connor started moving his hips harder and faster; the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room. With his mouth right next to Murphy's ear, he could hear Connor breathe, groaning out his brother's name as he started to come.

Then they moved, they moved together. Like some sixth sense that told them what to do. Murphy could feel it with each thrust, each shift, each time Connor would jerk his cock. He threw his head back, resting it on Connor's shoulders when he came, shuddering while grappling behind him, his hand on Connor's hip to urge him harder, deeper. "Oh, God! Oh my God! Fuck!"

"Lord's name in vain," Connor teased, still buried balls-deep in Murphy's ass. He flexed his hips, shuddering at the aftershocks. Even when he fell forward, he took Murphy with him, down and to their sides on the bed. He hissed when his dick slid free, but his arm was still around his brother's waist. "You're not fucking leaving," he whispered, right in Murphy's ear.

No. Murphy wasn't fucking going anywhere. He wasn't going to leave Connor alone. Still panting, his back pressed to Connor's chest, Murphy waited until his breathing was even before he rolled and faced his _brother_. All Murphy did was stare back because whatever was in his head was hard to form into words.

Who needed words, though? They'd done fine without them, hadn't they? Connor didn't look away; they didn't need words, not for this. It was what it was and nothing more. They didn't need to explain it to anyone.

If it didn't bother Connor, Murphy was going to let it go, let things _be_. Still, after everything that just happened between them, it took a long time before Murphy would relax right there beside Connor. It started with his head, resting against Connor's then his body yielded, legs tangling and his arm hooking around his brother's middle. Maybe, when they woke up tomorrow, things would be better. He'd doubted it, though.

"Better" was relative. Yakavetta was dead and they were being hunted. It was decided to go to Ireland, where it was quiet and they herded sheep. It wasn't hell by any stretch. But it was damned quiet and they had the barn to themselves and a mattress spread out there. In that way, nothing between Connor and Murphy really changed. They just happened to be brothers. Connor had always wanted a brother, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the Irish song "As I Roved Out"


End file.
